


The Fine Print

by Skalidra



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fights, Gen, Loss of Limbs, Muzzles, Non-Graphic Violence, Slavery, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9302747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: After their crash landing, Zarkon picked up the Paladins from the corners of the universe they'd crash-landed in, one at a time. Now, as the Champion once again, Shiro is offered a backhanded deal. Kill two of his fellow Paladins, and the other two will be allowed to live lives outside of the arena. Of course, Zarkon has offered the other Paladins a deal as well, and it's somewhat similar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! So, this is the start of Dark Voltron Week, which I had to do. (Honestly, this fandom is like 95% fluff and it was driving me a little nuts. Give me the dirty-bad-wrong stuff, _come on_.) So, this is actually an 8-day event, and I have a story for every day. This is day one, for which the prompts were, 'Violence/Betrayal'.
> 
> (This contains Shiro losing his metal arm. Which is... hard to tag for. But fair warning.)

Shiro wishes that being pulled into Zarkon's rooms was less familiar. Arms bound behind his back by the Galra-issue cuffs that leave his right arm as useless as dead weight, a soldier on either side, and the threat of a blaster pressed between his shoulder blades. Enough to keep him obedient, even if he wasn't being led in front of the most dangerous person he's ever met.

He can't beat Zarkon with his arms tied like this; that's just fact. He'd be suicidal to try, and he's not quite to that point yet.

Zarkon is standing near a window, looking out into the space surrounding his station and watching the ships passing by. The guards put Shiro on his knees in the center of the room, as he expects, and then turn to leave. He shifts his weight, settling in to be more comfortable. He keeps his gaze on Zarkon, trying to read any sort of move out of the side-profile that he can see. He can't get much apart from cool confidence, and that's not really different than what he remembers being normal.

Why would there be anything else? Zarkon has all of them in custody, all but helpless now that he's plucked them all from the edges of the universe when they were split apart. He's won. Why would he be anything but confident?

Shiro's used to waiting, so he lets himself breathe evenly and just wait until Zarkon finally turns around and slowly approaches him. He holds Zarkon's gaze, even when tipped claws slide down beneath his chin and pull his head a few inches higher. He's been at this too long to be worried about how it bares his throat; he'll die as soon as Zarkon wants him to, but not sooner. No use worrying about it.

"Welcome back, Champion," Zarkon says, with a faint smile. "I hear that the wounds Haggar gave you upon escape are healing well."

"Well as Druid wounds ever do," he answers, not offering any more specific information. Like how his side isn't glowing anymore but still aches if he twists the wrong direction, or that he's going to have another set of nasty scars from it, as soon as the claw marks actually fully close. They really should have been sutured, but his crash-landing didn't exactly give him many options on how to take care of them.

Zarkon watches him for a few moments in silence, clearly picking apart his lie of omission. Or maybe not, because the next murmured words are, "Are you going to beg for them, Champion?"

"Would it change anything if I did?" he asks, already knowing the answer. "I know how your empire works, Zarkon. I won't beg you for things you don't have any intention of granting me; you wouldn't respect me if I did."

"True enough," Zarkon says with a chuckle. "Then I'll simply tell you what I want you to do, hm? You know by now the consequences of disobeying."

"I know the consequences of obeying too," he counters. "Are you going to cut off my other arm this time around, or just go for a leg instead?"

Zarkon leans down, pulling him into a high kneel so that sharp teeth can nearly brush his ear. "That's very tempting, Champion. Careful; Haggar is always interested in running more experiments, especially with lesser-known species."

He fights down a shiver (in the depths of his mind he can still remember the bright circle of light above the surgery table, the drones looking down at him), and carefully closes his mouth again. Zarkon has plans, clearly. He can only get away with so much mouthing off before he gets put in his place; more around Zarkon than any other Galra official, but still not enough for him to risk any more.

Zarkon keeps him held in the high kneel, claws scraping his throat as the Emperor straightens back up. "My Champion needs to make an appearance in the arena, and you'll do it alongside the other Paladins in my custody. I don't have any need for a false Paladin team to give any of the shreds of resistance _hope_." He doesn't like where this is going, and that feeling is sharply confirmed when Zarkon taps the front of his throat with one metal claw and orders, "I want you to turn on them, Champion. Kill at least two, and I'll let the others have a life beyond the arena."

He takes in a slow breath. "No."

Zarkon is still, eyes entirely unreadable as he asks, "Oh?"

"I won't be your weapon," he says, plainly enough. "If you're going to kill me, do it. If you're going to kill them, do it. But I won't let you point and aim me like some kind of gun, not anymore." He exhales, settles more firmly onto his knees, and adds, "I'm also not naive enough to believe that a life beyond the arena would be any better than one in it; not for them, anyway."

He must sound firm enough to be believed, because Zarkon eases the hand off his throat. "Very well," is the dismissal. "You may go, Champion; the guards will escort you back to your cell."

Climbing to his feet is easy enough even without the use of his arms, and he carefully doesn't show any kind of deference, despite the faint urge to. He holds Zarkon's gaze for a moment, before stepping back and turning towards the door. Whatever Zarkon thinks of his defiance it must not be enough to get him to actually intervene, because he makes it to the door without being called back. It opens without prompting, and the guards take his arms and pull him away.

His cell is separate from the others, which worries him. He's actually not sure if the rest of them are together, but neither option is all that great. Either they're alone, cut off from everything, or together and worrying about him, like he's worrying about them. He wishes that he had more of an idea of exactly what Zarkon is planning, apart from wanting him to kill his team. That's not happening.

He's locked away again, cuffs taken off now that he's back in the dampening field the cell emanates. It keeps his arm useless at his side, usable as a normal arm but lacking all of the actual power contained within it. Not enough for him to risk trying to escape, not without more of an idea of where his team is and what an exit strategy might be. His last escape took months to plan; he can't pull one off from a _more_ secure location on the fly.

It's not that easy.

* * *

Two days — roughly — of sitting in a cell later, he's pulled back out. The guards dress him in bits of armor that he recognizes as his old Champion gear, and then escort him through corridors he's all too familiar with. He never memorized these ones like he did the ones on the prison ship he broke out of, but he knows them enough to recognize them. He's walked the route to the arena enough times.

The waiting room is already full, past the humming energy barrier that separates the actual fighters from their guard overseers, and he just barely manages to resist pulling away from the guards before they've unlocked the cuffs from around his wrists. He has a couple moments, before they push him through the barrier, where he could strike out. He doesn't. Not when past that barrier is the rest of his team, who immediately swarms him, arms locking around him.

He returns the hugs, clinging tight and sharing small smiles with them, trying to ignore the tension in the air. Keith holds on longest, drawing away only when he nudges him back half a step. Shiro looks around at them, pushing down the twinge of his stomach at the sight of them in the Galra slave uniforms. They don't have his pieces of armor, which is unwelcome but not surprising.

"Are you all alright?" he asks first, when the sweep of his gaze fails to turn up anything but one vivid bruise at the corner of Lance's mouth. Interesting colors but it doesn't look that bad, which is good enough for now.

Pidge squirms as the rest of them give tight nods, drawing his gaze. "Zarkon, he— I think he talked to all of us. At least he talked to me, but it just seems logical that he would do it to all of us. Right? He offered me a deal and I— I didn't know what to say, I—”

"Pidge," he interrupts, stepping forward and clasping a hand over her shoulder. "It's okay. It's alright. I promise." Then he looks up, reading the defensive and uncomfortable posture on the rest of them and coming to the conclusion that Zarkon must have spoken with the rest of them as well. Probably something similar to what he was offered. "He talked to me too," he offers, and it can't be his imagination how Hunk flinches back an inch, or that there's a flicker of pain in Keith's eyes.

Maybe they were told the same thing as him. But… that doesn't sound right. Zarkon is a better judgment of character than that, and the rest of the Paladins wouldn't kill half their friends to save the others. He might, however slim the possibility (and Zarkon hasn't had time to study him since his days as the Champion; he was different then).

He squeezes Pidge's shoulder before he straightens up, looking around at them. "Whatever he offered…” he starts, but can't quite finish. So he gives a small sigh and shakes his head, letting go and deciding to just be honest. "I remember most of my time here. Zarkon honors his deals, but usually there are depths you don't know about. Don't resist just out of pride; doing what he wants is better, most of the time. Just… be careful about it, alright?"

Pidge's smile is shaky, and no one else offers one. "Alright. Th-Thank you, Shiro."

He nods, and then looks over at the heavy door he knows opens out to the arena. "Alright, listen up. They'll give you basic weapons before whatever the fight is; hold onto those. Stay with someone but _don't_ all cluster together, you'll get in each other's ways and you're more of a target like that. Be careful. When in doubt, run. Let me handle the brunt of it; I've got the experience. Clear?"

The door opens in a sudden burst, before any of them can answer him. Pidge pales, noticeably, and Shiro takes a deep breath and leads the way out. The roar of the crowd is another too-familiar thing, as is the feel of the solid dirt beneath his feet, and the half-broken pillars scattered around the arena to provide cover. He swallows down nerves, moving to the center of the arena and standing tall, facing the raised podium up in the stands and the distant figure of Zarkon on it.

He takes one glance back to confirm that the other Paladins are at his back, spread slightly out but still clustering close enough that their nerves are clear. Keith's gaze is locked straight ahead, the same direction his is, but the rest of them are looking around. He takes a steadying breath and watches the guards come out of the side entrances, heading towards them. They bypass him, giving the weapons to his teammates instead. He activates his arm for a moment, just to make sure it works, and the rush of heat up the dulled nerves is as damning as it is reassuring.

He glances back to take in what weapons his team has been given, and apparently Zarkon has been paying attention. Keith has a blade, Lance and Hunk have what look like medium-strength guns, and Pidge has the combination of a small shield and an equally small knife. Accurate enough to their usual specialties that Shiro wonders what the exact point of this is.

Are they supposed to die? Or supposed to live?

If he'd agreed to Zarkon's deal then maybe he'd have more of an idea, but as it is… He remembers some of the nastiest things Zarkon ever threw at him, and he hopes that's not what's going to happen. He can probably do it again, but having to protect the rest of them…

One guard pauses by him, leaning in and down and saying, "The Emperor told me to remind you to put on a good show, _Champion_." It's more than quiet enough to be lost beneath the dull roar of the crowd, and the guard only pauses for a moment before joining the others in moving away, back towards the exits.

He tilts his head back, though he doesn't look away from the retreating guards, and calls, "There's a shield in place in front of the crowds; don't bother trying to get anything through them." He'd tried shooting up towards the crowds once or twice, in the days when he was just _angry_. He'd been beaten for it, after the proof came that his attempts were useless.

It's soldiers that come back into the arena. In full armor, with better weapons; a row of five to match them, standing across the arena. They seem looser than they should be though, more relaxed, and that inconsistency grates at him even as the crowd falls into a hush in anticipation. The soldiers are holding their weapons a little higher, but they still don't look quite _ready_. Something…

The alarm for the start of the match goes off, and he slides his leg back and lifts his arm a bit, scanning the soldiers to find which one of them looks like the biggest threat.

Something _slams_ into the side of his back, spinning him forward, and he hits the ground before he recognizes the wash of burning heat and the sizzle of skin as the blast of a gun. His side _burns_ , the blast having scorched easily through the undersuit and directly onto the not-quite-healed slashes of Haggar's attack. It aches deep into his muscles, pulling as he shoves up and twists, looking back.

It's _Lance_ behind him, gun still trained at him and eyes wide. Keith and the others are looking down at him as well, and suddenly, with a lurch, he understands the comment from the guard. Understands the looks he'd gotten back in the waiting room, and the way that Hunk and Keith had reacted to the mention that he'd spoken with Zarkon too. They probably thought he'd been offered, well, something very similar to what he actually was offered.

The soldiers in the arena are probably a secondary option, only here to fight if the team didn't take whatever deal it is that Zarkon's offered them.

He can't… He won't do what Zarkon wants him to. He won't kill any of them. If that costs his own life, so be it. But he knows, bone deep, that his performance is as important to this as theirs is. If he goes down too easily, or without giving the crowd a good show, he's pretty sure those soldiers will kill all the rest of his team regardless.

So he has to fight.

He sets his jaw, activates his arm, and that's enough to push them into action. He rolls out of the way of a second shot, from Hunk, and gets up on his feet. Lance backpedals as Keith moves forward, getting in front of all the rest of them with his blade held easily in one hand. It's a decent strategy; defend the weaker, longer-ranged members and give them room to maneuver. He only has a melee weapon, after all.

But he's been in a hundred arena fights, some against groups, and he knows how to get around tactics like this. His team knows him well; he knows them better. (Viciously, he shuts down the part of his mind that's planning to actually _win_ this. He probably could.)

He waits until Lance fires again to duck around it and _charge_ directly at Keith, keeping him as an obstacle firmly in Hunk's way. Pidge yelps for Keith to _move_ , but not fast enough to give Keith time to move out of the way of how he leaps and strikes downwards with his Galra arm. Keith's eyes are wide, but the blade comes up, edge glowing the same shade and meeting his strike with a spray of pink sparks and a high-pitched hum that bites into his ears.

He ignores it even as Keith winces, staggering beneath the force of his strike. Instinct guides him in grabbing the edge of the blade and shoving it up, leaving Keith open to a hard kick to his stomach. He makes himself let go of the blade so that Keith gets to keep it, rolling beneath the blast of Hunk's gun and towards Lance. _Pidge_ intercepts him, of all people, darting in from the side as Lance's shot goes high over his shoulder in a panic shot.

She darts in from the side, deflecting his hand with a smack of her shield and shoving the small blade forward at the same time. He could spin around it, he could press the advantage, but he makes himself step out of range instead, lets Lance have the moment to recover and then blast a second shot right at his chest. His armor takes the brunt of it, though the force knocks him backwards a couple steps.

He ducks under the next shot, catching Hunk's movement out of the corner of his eye but pretending he doesn't. The blast from the heavier-set gun burns into his already damaged side, and smacks him into the ground again. The dirt grinds against his face, and he genuinely has to suck in a breath and clench his jaw to deal with the pain. (No more letting anything hit him on that side; any worse and he risks real damage. The burns are bad enough.)

He can feel the reverberation of footsteps on the ground; a moment lets him identify the light, fast stride as Keith, and he judges positions and then twists. His leg sweeps Keith's out from under him, gaining him a startled yelp and sending Keith falling towards him. The open target of Keith's chest _screams_ at his arena-ingrained instincts, but he makes himself just roll and grab Keith instead of impaling him, driving him into the ground. A knee pins Keith's blade-arm beneath it, the other burying into a vulnerable stomach to drive the air out of his lungs.

He winds up to strike the blow, watches Keith's eyes go wide before light and motion flashes in the corner of his eye. He has to deflect the blast with his hand, sending it careening off into the dirt. Then a second, as Keith finally gets his breath back and punches upwards. This time he actually is forced backwards, though he does grind his knee into Keith's arm as he rolls away and back to his feet. Pidge is already running at him, eyes as wide as Keith's but still moving to shield Keith's upwards scramble.

He lets it happen, planning which of them is the least protected. It's a grim thought, but he knows that he can't let this end without hurting at least one of them. More, ideally. He'll have to struggle to make it look real without actually maiming any of them; what kinds of injuries can he give that won't really hurt them?

Hunk is the least mobile of them, but the least prone to panic. Pidge has the least weaponry but she's fastest. and sticks close to others. Lance panics most easily, but is agile and knows how to backtrack. Keith is constrained to melee, and outclassed, but he's also the actual best fighter of them all. There are pros and cons to each.

He'll try Hunk first; the rest will have to intercept him to stop him, which might give him a chance at the others.

He bolts forward at a dead run, using his longer legs to his advantage as he circles around Pidge and Keith and towards Hunk. It's easy to spin around one blast and then duck the one that Lance launches at him from the side. Pidge shouts in warning, he can almost feel Keith charging him, but neither of them is close enough to stop him from coming in at Hunk, low and fast. He slashes upwards as Hunk jerks back, and his arm slices a diagonal line across Hunk's chest, splitting the undersuit without even a trace of resistance.

Hunk shouts in pain, reeling backwards. Shiro follows up by twisting, kicking the blaster from his hands before he turns to meet Keith's charge. The blade scrapes against his hand, Keith's momentum driving him back half a step before his leg braces and halts the forward movement. This time Keith is the one to slide sideways and kick out at him. The impact against his real arm hurts, but it's not much in comparison, and it lets him kick Keith away the next moment with a boot in his stomach.

That's too slow to stop Pidge from darting in and slashing at his thigh though, and it's aimed well enough that the blade rakes into the muscle of his left leg and severs the strap of the light armor on that thigh. He hisses, lashing out, but Pidge is already out of range. A blast slams into the armor his back and staggers him forward, and he grits his teeth against the pain when his injured leg takes his weight and shakes a bit under it.

He spins back around to face them, and barely deflects another blaster shot. Part of him falls back on instinct and backs up so he can get a better view of all of them. (The other part of him, dimly, is proud that they're working together well enough to keep him off balance, even if he isn't fighting at his best.)

Keith is coming at him again, this time to the side so that when both Lance and Hunk fire he's forced to jerk to the side to get out of the way. It puts him off balance when Keith crashes into him, Pidge at his heels and circling around even as he falls back. He tries to brace, to get his feet beneath him, but Pidge's dagger swipes at the back of his left thigh and it buckles underneath him. He hits the ground hard, Keith on top of him, blade scratching along his Galra arm and sweeping up towards his throat.

Shiro jerks to the side to avoid it, letting the blade dig into the dirt. He doesn't let himself think about the movement, he just _strikes,_ hand glowing hot and bright as he drives it upward and into Keith's left shoulder. He gets a scream for that, feels a twinge of terrible guilt as Keith recoils and falls off him, blade scratching the side of his face on the way past as it's dragged with. He comforts himself, in that brief moment, with knowing that his hand burns bright enough to cauterize, and the Galra medical facilities are _good_.

Keith won't lose the arm. Not like him.

He curls up, but when he tries to get up his left leg refuses to take his weight, and it's the best he can do to drag himself back and away from Keith's half-kneeling form, making sure the rest of them are within his sight. Pidge goes down beside Keith, speaking to him with wide eyes. He has to fling another blaster shot aside as both Lance and Hunk advance, made confident by the fact that standing would be a difficult thing for Shiro to do right now.

Keith struggles back up, eyes pain-bright and his left arm hanging, but the blade still clutched tight in his other hand. Pidge braces him for a moment before deciding he can stand on his own. Lance and Hunk are there just a moment later.

Shiro pushes up, keeping his Galra arm raised and ready to defend as he slowly gets his good leg underneath him. It _hurts_ to stand, but he lets his weight rest on the single good leg and forces himself up. The show isn't done just yet. He breathes through the pain of his side and leg, and the sting of what little of his back got hit by the blast to the armor over it. That gets their attention, which is good since he can't push the offensive very well.

There are some words exchanged between them, too quiet for him to hear, before they head for him with a renewed sense of purpose. He sets his jaw a little tighter as they split up, Lance and Pidge to one side and Keith and Hunk to the other. Smart; it'll be enough to take him down.

He keeps track of both groups for as long as possible. Not surprisingly, it's when he turns to get them both back in his line of sight that they attack. Lance, who he's actually facing, fires a blast at him that he deflects. The matching shot from Hunk, just a half second later, slams into his back and sends him reeling again. He falls to his one good knee, catching himself on his Galra hand as Pidge darts forward. He gets his hand up to grab and divert the small blade away from its strike towards his face, pulling Pidge's arm with it so her side is open.

Then there's an impact against the upper part of his mostly Galra arm. Pressure, _strain_ , paired with the screech of metal all too close to his ear. It takes a half-second more before the _pain_ hits him as something irrevocably _gives_.

He screams, reaching blindly for the sudden agony of his Galra arm as his back arches. His fingers brush the fabric over his shoulder, metal, and then a jagged edge and spitting wires where there should be more arm. His fingers dig into his own shoulder, and he doesn't realize that he's collapsed to the dirt of the arena floor for several more seconds where all he can think or feel is the _pain_.

The scrape of dirt against his face registers, finally, as his brain manages to get slightly past the agony. He drags in a breath that he manages to not scream out again, scraping his remaining hand against the floor, not positive that he can actually raise his head. The decision is taken from him when he's pushed onto his back, and the _thump_ of his damaged arm against the ground makes him cry out, his back arching again for a short second.

Something shoves him flat again, and he pries his eyes open to find that it's a boot, one that belongs — when he drags his gaze up — to Lance. The gun is aimed down at him, towards his head and faintly trembling. A second boot presses his still existing wrist into the dirt; that one's Keith.

Lance looks torn, looks hesitant.

He takes as deep a breath as he can manage, then offers, "It's okay." His voice comes out weak, rasping. Still, he forces himself to say, "Take the shot. Do what you have to."

Lance's eyes are tearing up, and Shiro closes his eyes in turn, letting himself ease out against the ground. He _hurts_ , and there's a deep, underlying sense of horror at the knowledge that his arm is gone. _Again_.

The last sound he hears, before the black takes him, is the roar of the arena's match-end alarm.

* * *

He wakes, surprisingly, to the feeling of soft fabric against his skin. There's a dull ache beneath his skin, centered towards his right shoulder, but beyond registering that he doesn't pay much attention. He shifts first, blinking open his eyes. One half of his vision is nothing but dark purple fabric, but the other half catches the grey of metal flooring before he lifts his head.

It's… a room. A Galra room. He blinks, checking in with his own body beyond the full-body ache. His chest and feet seem to be bare, but he's wearing pants. There's a weight around his throat he can't place, and he feels… lighter than usual. Also stiff, sore, and _hungry_. He pushes up with the hand trapped beneath him, there's a clink of something metallic, and as he gets to sitting the thing around his throat draws _tight_. He chokes for a second before he can jerk back, and the backwards foot or so that he manages eases the pressure.

He reaches upwards to find out what it is, and— and the first part of what's _wrong_ with this hits him. He looks down at his right arm, or lack thereof. It ends a couple inches down from where the Galra prosthetic is attached, in a smooth metal cap instead of the fullness of an actual limb. The memory of the arena, of the _pain,_ comes back slowly, but with enough force to make him tremble.

There's the tap of footsteps, and he looks up, _up,_ until it registers that it's Zarkon coming to a stop before him. He swallows, and is reminded again of the weight around his throat. This time he raises his human hand, and comes into contact with a smooth, metal _collar_ locked around his neck, attached to something that feels like a thin wire at the back. Clearly it's strong enough to withstand the pressure, at least more pressure than his neck can.

"Awake again, little human?" Zarkon asks, amused and clearly rhetorical. "Surprised?"

"Yes," he answers, honestly. "My team, what—?"

"No longer your concern," Zarkon says. "That was the deal they accepted; a betrayal in exchange for your life, separate from their own. You are no longer a champion, nor a warrior, but you will survive. For now."

He tenses a little bit. "So now what?"

Zarkon kneels down in a slow but smooth drop, reaching out. The tips of claws hook beneath the collar, pulling him forward an inch. "You are a trophy, my defeated Black Paladin. A visible sign of my power. Behave, and I will grant you rights; perhaps even a new arm, if you are particularly pleasing."

"And if I don't?"

Zarkon's smile is enough to make him shudder. "Well, there are joys in that route as well. For me, anyway. You've proven yourself a quick learner before, human; I'm sure you'll take to this just as quickly." The hand at his neck moves, and he can feel and hear it as the wire is messed with. He can't place the noises, but he thinks it's more complicated than simply unhooking him. "Come along," is Zarkon's casual order, as the emperor stands and sweeps across the room.

He shifts up, but doesn't get past a single braced foot before a shock seizes him, dragging a yelp from his throat and collapsing him back to the floor.

"Stay on your knees," is the belated addendum, as he gains control of his limbs again. Zarkon settles down in a chair, a table in front of him, and watches. "You know how to crawl, don't you, human?"

It makes him a bit sick, but he obeys anyway. He crawls (the missing arm makes it awkward, stilted) across the room, the metal floor hard against his knees even through the black fabric of the pants he's been given, until he's at Zarkon's feet. There he's tugged slightly forward, against the outside of one leg as Zarkon's head turns towards the table. He grits his teeth together, carefully trying to coax out the version of himself that had managed to survive Zarkon's arena, and attention. This can't be much worse.

Claws graze the back of his head, then tug downwards at his hair to make his head lift. When he looks up, he finds Zarkon's other hand in front of him, something that looks somewhat fruit-like impaled on one claw. He understands what's expected, without being told, when that claw comes in and pushes the fruit-thing into his mouth as he opens it. What little of his pride still lives rankles at the behavior, but he quashes the reaction down. This is miles from the worst that Zarkon could do to him; it isn't even really _bad_.

He breathes evenly throughout Zarkon hand-feeding him whatever the meal is, until the release of the claws in his hair tell him that it's over.

"In the future," Zarkon says idly, picking something else up from the table, "you'll thank me for your meals, whether I attend to them personally or not." He shivers a bit at the command, and then Zarkon turns slightly towards him, something like a bent metal plate in his hands, but glowing with Galra 'magic' that makes it clear it's something more technologically advanced than a bit of metal. "Stay still, little human."

He probably would have even without the direct order. Zarkon reaches down, and the metal fits neatly over his mouth and jaw, as if it was made for him; maybe it was. Zarkon presses something on it, and he jerks at the feeling of thin, metal tendrils sliding sharp and fast out from the back edges of the metal and across his skin. They dig almost painfully into the back of his scalp and neck, maybe a half dozen evenly split on both sides.

It takes him a moment of panicked breath and an utterly failed attempt to open his jaw to realize that the metal contraption is a _muzzle_. He can't speak, he can't even part his jaw, and his teeth are held firmly against each other by the pressure.

Zarkon's touch is deceptively tender as it slides across his cheek, above where the metal starts. "When you've been trained to only speak when I desire it, you may have your voice back. For now, you may only have it when I have use of it." He meets Zarkon's gaze, hoping his own isn't as wild as he thinks it probably is. By Zarkon's smile, and the repeat of the gentle touch to his cheek, he thinks he's failed that. "Another privilege to earn, little human."

He shudders, trying to make himself calm down, trying to hold the panic at bay because he can't breathe through his mouth and he _will_ hyperventilate.

Zarkon's amusement is clear, every inch of his posture relaxed and self-assured. "Shall we practice your manners, my pet?"


End file.
